


Told Me I Shouldn’t Sleep

by regulsh



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, RPF, this is a post-rocketman alt-universe and references such things so i am justified ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: He doesn’t quite know what to make of it.  Tells himself sternly,you don’t have to make anything of it.





	Told Me I Shouldn’t Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> my brain said “what if there was a world where they shot a movie together in italy this summer ha ha and then what ;)” and i blacked out and this appeared
> 
> very fictional, liberties taken, etc.

They have a blessed Saturday off shooting, which is the day that everything happens.

-

Darren, late on Friday, seizes upon the idea of going into town on their day off. He pitches Taron to come with him, growing in excitement.

“We already have a translator,” Darren announces faux-grandly, spreading his arms. “C’mon man, we’ll go exploring in the city. Enjoy the sunshine, drink too much wine. Let’s do it! An _adventure_,” he declares, pounding the table once with his fist. 

Taron was in all honesty planning to sleep in absurdly late and, if he felt particularly ambitious, waste the rest of the day wandering around the hills, earphones plugged in, catching up on new album releases. He does like Darren, having built a casual rapport during snippets of time caught here and there over the past few months when they ended up in the same Hollywood places. Didn’t blink twice at the opportunity to work with him, much less in rural Italy, much less during a slack and beautiful summer. Figures he should take advantage of the people he’s with, the places he’s in, while he’s there. Has learned how quickly and suddenly things can end, against his will. How circumstances are only just that.

He agrees.

-

Darren, first thing in the morning Saturday, nearly skips ahead of him into the market in town.

(and yes, _first thing_, way too fuckin’ early, by god. Maybe it was a reasonable time for regular people but he’s an _actor_ for chrissakes, Taron hadn’t kept to a reasonable sleeping schedule for months. He had been roused in the dark by several buzzing texts:

_leave in ten? gotta get there before it’s all picked over _

He had lifted his head and squinted, tapped out _are you for real _

Then, feeling rude: _just became conscious i’ll need a few _

He received a near instantaneous reply, _fuck man sorry yeah okay! fifteen! _

Twenty five minutes later Taron had met him in the parking lot, eyes barely pried open, where Darren leaned against the car whistling cheerily. He proffered one of two dark coffees, _bless him_, Taron didn’t even know where he would get them at this hour. He moaned his thanks, sipped it greedily as they drove; Darren tuned the radio to a fuzzy station of American oldies, tapping in time on the steering wheel. Taron listened to him croon along with the standards, couldn’t resist chiming in with snatches of songs where he knew them. Darren smiled whenever he heard his voice, offered bits of music trivia and history by way of conversation. The car had felt secret and alive, their own little bubble speeding through the dawning world waking up around them.)

The market is loud and hot and thick with so many smells, none of them familiar. They peruse the stalls teeming with goods, Darren chatting away and judiciously handling dusty dried salamis, fat dripping bundles of fresh grapes, oily hot peppers, firm cheeses.

Taron is watching as Darren brandishes a pomegranate at a young woman behind one of the tables and tilts his hips, leans in conspiratorially close, shoulders low. Seductive bartering; he snorts. But Darren gestures and jokes with all the sellers at the stands, speaking rapid Italian all the while, swiveling his hand through the air, sweet old women clucking over his self-deprecation. At least Taron can tell it’s self-deprecation from body language alone, Darren smoothly rolling his eyes and shrugging his shoulders, bashful pretense, smirking. He gamely pretends to hang on every word, pretends to understand.

Taron likes to think he can swan about with the best of them, but this is another level. He feels sod-footed and ungainly, shuffling in the background. He forces another stand across the cramped street to catch his eye, tries to distract himself by investigating the rustic loaves.

(He supposes in Italy, in their native habitat, they’re just called bread, aren’t they? No need for any romanticized nomenclature when the earthen ovens, the bellowing vendors, the fertile air, do all the romanticizing for him.)

Darren finds him several long minutes later. “Thought I’d lost you! You good?”

He’s clutching several tangerines between his open hand and chest, uses his free hand to grab Taron’s forearm, his bicep.

“Onward,” Taron states.

Darren tosses him a tangerine, beaming.

-

A picnic, it is decided, is the thing to do. It’s nearly midday by the time they finish at the market, having loaded up several bags. They traipse through the nearby park, the brush quite wild compared to the tidy flat squares of green in London, the manicured rolling expanses in New York and LA. The trees and bushes and grasses are almost encroachingly overgrown, as if the city had threaded and snuck its way through the wilderness in a covert attempt at civilization.

They step off the path and realize there’s no neat place to sit, hadn’t done anything as sensible as plan, or bring a blanket. Darren shrugs and lays out the pitifully small flap of his jacket onto a dappled bit of wiry grass, ever the problem solver. They sit close on top of it, picking at snowy pastries, necking cold-but-warming squat bottles of beer. Salty shreds of prosciutto. Fresh fruits, slightly bruised from their bags banging as they walked.

They eat companionably, shoulder to shoulder. They burn through the small talk of events just transpired that morning and turn inevitably, boringly, to work. Darren is endlessly curious, prompting _tell me about it_ and _what was that like?_ while Taron spills his life story and presents his complicated feelings about the state of his, god help him, career. Darren’s face is still and non-judgmental when Taron looks at him, but it’s awkward to twist around for too long, ends up rambling to the patch of clover in front of him. They bond over a particular brand of post-project depression, when playing someone turned up so high leaves you feeling altitude-sick and woozy when you’re done, bereft of that intensity.

They commiserate, and they revel, and Taron can’t help but marvel at this odd shared slice of life they have, their work. Sitting next to someone that would be an entire world away from him in any other life. He can hardly believe this wild machine that snatched them both up, battered them together at various functions, flung them away together to this far off wild place. Somehow landed next to each other, beneath the stone pines. It’s utterly ridiculous.

He feels suddenly embarrassed and turns it back onto Darren, asks casual probing questions. Darren’s effortless grace from this morning is gone, here, in the stillness. Animated, he talks in fits and tripping starts about _well I want_ and _what’s next_ and _shit, nobody can control that shit anyway_, offering twice as many caveats and tangents as he does initial thoughts. Taron groans appreciatively at the right parts, he thinks. It’s strange to think that both of them still feel like they’re on the edge of something. That they’ve both been told they’re on some undefined precipice for the entirety of the last (first) decade of their careers. Continually arriving.

“I just hope I can find it, y’know?” Darren concludes, hunching over. “I’m probably being…” Doesn’t finish the thought.

Taron laughs, once, in the silence. Cracks at him, “Didn’t win quite enough trophies, is that it?”

Darren frowns gently, still deep in thought. Serious. Murmurs, “No, that’s not it.”

Taron, oddly chastised, leans back on his hands. Stretches his legs out into the full sun, gently _tch_es his tongue for lack of anything better to do. Darren turns his head with a sudden blinding grin, grabs his knee and insists, “It’ll be you soon enough though, man.”

Taron grabs his shoulder and squeezes, starts his groan and says _come off it_, pleased, while Darren laughs loud and bright.

“I’m serious!” he exclaims. “Different playing fields,” waves his hand, “I get it. But you do- People can’t do the shit you do. As well as you do. I would know.”

Taron looks at him, thinks of late nights and long breaks in shooting, Darren leading stragglers along in song until his voice was hoarse while playing guitar, fuck it, playing ten different instruments and speaking five languages, magnanimous conversation—

“N’yeah, it’s nothin’ special,” he hears himself say. Winces at how he sounds, knows it’s just deflection, irrational, _he_ doesn’t even believe that for a second, but—

Darren’s looking at him as confused and stunned as if he’d slapped him.

“It is,” he insists, disbelieving, almost angry. “Stop it.” Reaches over and pinches his cheeks, sweeps his arm out at the landscape, declares, “_Guarda!_ No sour pusses _in Italia!_”

At an absolute fucking loss, Taron intones, “Meow.”

Darren lets out a short, sharp _ha!_ at that. Then _oh my god- dude_, as he swerves yet again, recounts a story from a painfully pompous industry event they had attended, gossipy and lewd. They repeat the punchline back at each other until they’re weeping with laughter, Darren falling over him, absolutely giggling. He wipes his face and slouches down until he’s flat on his back on the ground, his head resting on Taron’s thigh.

Taron—stays still.

Darren nestles unperturbed where he lays, talks low, reminisces dreamily to nobody about the time he spent nearby here, years and years ago, in school. Taron tries to picture Darren younger and even wilder than he is now. Imagines what Darren would think of his younger self, clumsy and loud, feels his cheeks burn.

They are quiet for several minutes. Taron surveys the distant tree line and dotted roofs, the rustling breeze filling the silence. He inhales to speak when he hears a noise below him, looks down to see—Darren sleeping like a dead man, mouth open and brow slack.

Taron keeps his lower half still as he lays back in the grass. Feels it tickling at his ear, bewildered.

Darren is simultaneously the least pretentious and most pretentious person he's ever met. Gregarious, maybe that’s the word for it. Maybe that’s all it is. Taron will reach out to grip his arm when he feels so full to bursting, peaking tidal waves of emotion, but Darren embraces him, everyone, with ease and regularity. His bullshit meter is broken, can’t tell if Darren’s intentions are genuine or false, purely functional. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Tells himself sternly, _you don’t have to make anything of it_.

But when Darren lays a hand on his arm, or lowers his brow and gaze to make a point intently, Taron feels… drawn to it, viscerally. He has, in the past, availed himself of a gentleman once or twice, but hadn’t really made a habit of it, hadn’t much felt the desire to. A quick shuffle in a dark corner or a tumble into bed with someone leaving the same night felt decidedly different, anyways. Hot and fast and urgent. This is not that. So mild and slow, all the time in the world, as he snores in his lap.

Laid back, he stares unseeing at the sky and sparse canopy above them. It’s easy to pretend they’re lost for good in the wilderness, miles and miles of sheltered woods rather than a short block away from civilization, beeping cars, just like anywhere. He lays a brave hand on the crown of his head, his dark hair warm beneath his palm. Doesn’t know how long they lay like that as they breathe, one low and belly-deep, one uneven and shallow.

Too soon he feels Darren stir and snatches his hand away, not so brave. Darren wakes with a sniff, sitting up and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“_Whoo_, power nap. Thanks for the pillow,” he says, and smirks. “You feel good?”

It’s a question Taron doesn’t know entirely how to answer.

“Let’s head out, huh?” Darren stands, smacking bits of grass off the back of his legs, grimacing. He reaches his hand out to Taron to help him up. He takes it.

-

They wander through town in a slick haze all day, slipping through museums, stores, galleries.

Spend way too much time in a vast dirty showroom stacked to the ceiling with narrow chairs, gargantuan furred rugs, delicately tassled lamps, overstuffed velvet cushions.

A church swallows them into its cool interior, their voices dropping, dwarfed as they gaze at the gilded dome.

A crowded bookstore-and-record-shop-and-bar that they both go nuts in, pawing through the cardboard stacks, stopping to sip bitter sweating negronis at cracked barstools as they read liner notes, Darren sticking some under his nose with occasional _ooo_, _ooo_s.

“Let’s grab a picture,” Darren says at one point, pulls him in for a deeply weird series of selfies at the top of the steps of a busy square. Taron’s hand grips tight around his tiny waist, his t-shirt damp, threadbare. Taron doesn’t know where the pictures will end up—he does follow him on Instagram, knows how little he uses it, even less than he himself does.

“Oh, and one of me?” Darren holds out his phone to Taron. “Want to send one to my mom.”

Taron grins and plays the paparazzo, hams it up, _one more for me Darren_, making him belly laugh as he hangs off a streetlamp, shaking his head like a dog.

“Look okay?” he asks, jumping down.

“Gorgeous,” Taron replies, remembers to flip to his camera roll.

-

The day, now slunk into evening, is still so warm and lovely. A winding side street encourages them to nestle outside, sequestered, underneath the drooping awning of a small osteria Darren had led them to. They sit at a white tablecloth, the wide legs of their table rickety on the cobbles; the jewel-glass encased candle sat between them has gone out. Taron fumbles in his pocket for a matchbook he had nicked from a shop they visited earlier, strikes one alight and tilts the glass on its side to relight the wick. Job done, he holds on to the thin match. Watches the flame creep towards his pinched fingertips.

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to play with matches,” Darren gasps, clutching his chest, mock-concerned. Taron doesn’t move his eyes from the flame, lightly raises his eyebrows and says _mmm_, shakes it out at the last moment when the warmth gets too close.

They uncork a brunello the waiter tactfully recommends and drink through the bottle as the night falls around them, fuzzy and sweet.

When the waiter returns for their order Darren converses with him, assiduous, turns away entirely from Taron and hums and peppers him with questions before ordering what sounds like several things for the both of them, snapping the menu shut and giving a brief caress of the waiter’s hand and a fond chuckle as if they’re old friends.

And maybe they are, Taron doesn’t know. On the street earlier they heard an accented voice call Darren’s name and they both turned, Taron’s adrenaline kicked up, remembering who they are—but it had been a tall woman who Darren greeted with a smile and a shout; an old pal, friends in every corner of the world, it felt like. Earlier than that they had ducked into a doorway for some relief from the sun and the beaming shop owner called Darren over and clapped him on the back, left Taron standing awkward on the threshold.

“Ah, you love it, don’t you,” Taron manages, only slightly snide. The waiter is barely even out of earshot.

Darren tilts his head and tilts his wine glass, rocking it in circles on the linen. Taron worries for one long heartbeat that he’s broken this gentle thing between them. Another clumsy misstep.

Until he hears Darren say, “_Fuck_, I like you,” sees him lean over, feels him press his dark-stained lips full to his own, warm, stunned, feels himself clutch one-handed at his jaw as they breathe for a moment, two, before parting with a wet smack.

Inhales. Lets it go, in one long rush.

He can only gaze, lips parted, as Darren regards him over the rim of his glass with open, sparkling eyes. Unexpectant.

He feels thoroughly upset. Not emotionally, not like that- upset like a card table might be. Jolted from where it stood, contents flying everywhere.

“I didn’t know,” Taron finally says, dumb. “I didn’t know, if.”

“If you want.” Darren follows, naturally. “Just… If you want. I do.”

Only now does Taron see his eyes ticking to his mouth, his arms. He had spent all day trapped up in his own bullshit, trying to avoid being sucked into his vortex, that he hadn’t been paying attention. They’ve had fun goofing around together these past few weeks, today. But Darren is a magpie, a pied piper, always flitting from him to someone else on set—and so he had written him off as casual and inattentive, just fine, a friend. 

But Darren had asked him to come with him today. Just him. Not anybody else. 

Realizes now, feels with a flush, that he’s in fact been under the warming lamp of attention all day, Darren darting around to curate this experience for him, for them. He had seen Darren looking at him today, sure, and thought it was just part of it, but no, was it, had he been _looking_ at him—?

Fractionally, he leans forward in his chair, notices Darren do the same. Stops moving, and flicks his eyes to the empty alley.

Taron stands up to better survey the deserted street, then sits back down, abruptly. Raps his knuckles on the table, considering. Before he can conjure too many reasons not to, he whips his side of the tablecloth into the air, ducks and slides down onto the cobblestones, scooching up under the table as it flutters back down behind him. Hears Darren yelp _wha—_ before he cuts him off: presses his hands firmly on the knobbled tops of his canvas shoes, slides them up prickling against the coarse grain of the hair on his legs, pushing the tablecloth up as he goes, sweeping over his shorts to the tops of his thighs, one long luxurious caress. Darren goes very quiet.

He turns his head to mouth at the inside of his knee, salty and soft-skinned, as if he could drink the sunshine and heat of the day out from it. Uses his hand to trace up the inside of his other thigh, firm mischievous circles up the hem of his shorts. “S’good,” Darren breathes; Taron realizes his hands are searching against the fabric to try to reach him and bats them away, a brief and hilarious slap fight with a ghost until Darren pulls away. Wants to do this on his own terms.

Taron uses his grip to yank him to the edge of his seat, far enough that his lower half is pulled completely under the table. He just- stays there for a moment, hands tight on his hips while he rubs his face against his crotch, panting, a pleasant sort of suffocation, swaddled by the dark cavern of the draped tablecloth, his warm muscled thighs, the hard stones under his knees.

He bites gently over his dick in his shorts, hears Darren gasp _fucker_ above him, smiles, unseen. There’s so little space under the table but he makes do, just unzips him, fishes his half-hard cock out of his shorts and tongues gently around the head.

It is wet and sloppy and altogether feels like an out of body experience but he blows him, is compelled to lick heavy and thoroughly around the warm weight of him in his mouth. Tries to remember how he likes it and apply it, grips tight at the base of his dick.

The waiter comes to check back, refill their water glasses. He feels Darren lean forward even further against the table, hears him say _oh yes, back in a moment, for sure_, can barely stifle his hysterical giggles as the footsteps recede.

Hears Darren exhale shaky breaths above him, a soft whine in his throat. Taron feels filled from his belly to the top of his head, loose and high, that they both play and preen and perform for all kinds of folks, it’s their job, and here Darren may have a grander grasp on it than he does, but still, _he_ can make _him_—

He hears a sharp _bang_ on the table above him as Darren spreads his thighs and shoves deep, hot, hard into his mouth, coming, coming, in long hot pulses. He twitches with it, swallows eagerly.

Tucking him gently back into his shorts takes some effort, gasping and panting as he is, when there’s a sudden rush of cool clean air, Darren having thrown back the tablecloth to expose him still nestled between his legs. “God,” Darren hisses, lays a cool hand on Taron’s forehead as if he’s checking for fever. “_Damn_.”

Darren glances up and around, mutters _come on_ as he scoots his chair back from the table and pulls him to his feet for the second time that day.

He squirms his way out and stands, tugging smartly on his shirt and coughing, before Darren yanks him into a kiss, both of his hands sturdy on the column of Taron's neck. Taron flails his hands out to prevent from falling and props himself against the arms of his chair. Tastes dark currant, and cherry, and come, on their shared breath.

The thought occurs to him to disengage, or that Darren might want to, and finds that neither of them do. He steadies himself, softens the slide of his lips, generous with it. He feels spent, even though Darren’s the one that got off, calmed and sated while Darren only licks harder at his mouth, insistent, hungry. Darren’s hand on his lower back, tingling with it. They’re here, now, it seems.

He finally makes his way back to his own chair and nearly collapses in it, still drunk off the kisses and the lack of air and _shit_, the wine too, huh. Darren is at an apparent loss for words. A rarity. He fumbles across the table for his hand; Taron holds it, briefly, before leaning back. Silence. Darren laughs and he squeezes his eyes shut, laughs, and they’re both laughing as he bathes in the warmth, the wine, the candlelight, a fucking pastiche of a scene that he helplessly succumbs to.

-

They walk back to the car, quiet and closer than before. Drifting gentle and soft, as everything here seems to do, is some strummed tune coming from the street over. They veer unconsciously toward the sound, turning the corner to find a tiny old man with a handful of instruments, crowded by a small clutch of onlookers. He still can’t say he knows Darren all too well yet but he’s learning, is unsurprised when he leaves his side and drops a fistful of bills into the open case, strides from the boundary of the crowd up to the old man and strikes up a conversation. Sure enough, moments later Darren picks up the mandolin, plucking it briefly, his brows drawn, before launching into a song Taron of course doesn’t recognize. He sees him searching for his eyes in the crowd, finds him, raises his eyebrows at him briefly before he kneels at a lady’s feet, playing and pouting mournfully up at her until she cracks a smile and a helpless laugh, and Taron should feel annoyed or jealous but instead just feels so, so fond.

-

Taron’s phone clatters on the terracotta tiling at their feet. He spares the briefest of thoughts for it, unfortunate, before mashing Darren up against the inside of the door. He knows Darren jingled the keys, footsteps quick on the steps up to his place, pontificating on some _incredible_ gelato he had stashed in the freezer they just _had_ to cap their evening with, but he can’t.

Not kiss him.

(The interminable drive back to their empty apartments. Windows down, all the better to bleed out whatever it was between them, they would have suffocated otherwise. Couldn’t bear to not touch him, face him. Couldn’t bear it if he had. But now—)

Taron diverts him from his path by force, presses him eagerly where he wants him. Feels like a teen getting his first shot with a girl, that level of blooming desire, just wants to stick his hands down his pants and grope and have his fill.

The slide of their lips together is both familiar and still a novelty. Admittedly Taron had no grand designs past getting his mouth on him, his hands in his hair, as soon as possible. But Darren is not a passive partner, groans delighted into the embrace and runs a single finger up under his balls and over his dick trapped behind the seam of his jeans, making him convulse. Darren's hands slide around his body, clamp over his ribs to pull Taron even harder against him and the door, groans _want this_ through gritted teeth, emphasizing both short words. It zings bright in his chest and aches in his balls, sharp and unrelenting.

Darren is trim and small, Taron with his hands pushed flat on the door can bracket his entire body around him, trap him in place beneath the trunk of his torso, between his legs, and _fuck_ fuck fuck, this is not what he thought about when he woke up this morning. How could he have? Landed in another strange place, another in a series of bewildering inflection points—

And then he’s gone, Darren dropped down quick as lightning to his knees as Taron staggers back, pulls him out of his pants and proceeds to lavish him with the lushest blowjob he’s ever had the pleasure of receiving. Taron groans stupidly and thunks his whole forehead against the door. He lets his head loll there, mouth slack as his hips drive independently, needy, into his mouth.

“I do love it,” Darren murmurs as he pulls off, pumping his dick thoughtfully. He digs his thumb into the slit, as Taron sucks his breath in between his teeth. “Keep fucking my mouth,” he tells him, somehow incredulous like he doesn’t know why Taron had stopped.

Taron doesn’t let him go, greedy, encircles his waist with a grunt and half-hikes him up instead so they stumble-carry each other into the bedroom. “Better idea,” he retaliates, peels him out of his jacket. He frankly pushes him down onto the mattress, rough, feels his mouth begin to form _sorry_ until he sees the thrilled look on Darren’s face and decides against it.

He clambers to meet him over the thin quilt, tears off his own shirt and jigs out of his jeans as Darren yanks his own tee over his head. His mouth wets at the sight of his skin exposed, tanned and warm, appealing. Taron only sees it for a moment before letting out an _oof_; Darren’s pulled him down to crush flat on top of him.

“_Ahhhh_,” Darren exhales at the full press of their bodies together; a long satisfied sigh, exaggerated, defensibly ironic. But Taron can feel how all his muscles have melted, how his legs hike up to twist around his own. Taron presses a smile into his chest, sets his teeth not-so-gently into the firm muscle of his pectoral. Feels Darren seize under him.

“What do you want,” Darren croaks. His hair is stuck up on one side, lank curls scuffed up by Taron’s hands having twisted in it. They’re both a little grimy and sour, he can taste it as he sucks against his clavicle, the base of his neck, tongue swirling, in desperate need of a shower, but first—

“Need you,” he gasps, fast and true, wants to pry open his rib cage like cellar doors and rummage around inside to find what he needs.

He fucks him ferociously instead, needs to bury his dick in as close as he can get. Selfish, wild, he stutters his hips against his, relishes in the lewd wet slap each time. Darren only stretches his knees wider and cries, ecstatic. Gloriously happy realizing that Darren’s getting off on it as much as he is, smooths and lengthens his thrusts, reaches underneath him to fist his cock, some of his initial frenzy driven off like vapor with Darren gasping low and tremulous beneath him. Feeling huge and all-consuming, consumed, leans down as he mouths crazily at the knob of his spine and comes with a shudder and gasping grunt.

Glutted, he pants, twists his head out and away, needs to breathe in some air that isn’t trapped in their sweaty hollows but keeps stripping Darren’s cock, lets his eyes close and feels when Darren shouts and jerks, wet over his knuckles, lets the sensation spread through him slow like syrup.

They’re both deflated, exorcised. He pulls his hand away, wipes it on the quilt, uncaring, laundry later. He refuses to lift his body off him just yet.

It’s Darren who wriggles away, staggers out of bed, Taron’s chest clenching momentarily- but he hears the sink run, banging of drawers, and Darren returns with a wet washcloth that he tosses to Taron to wipe down, gratefully. He looks up to throw it in a corner and sees Darren also carrying a pint of gelato. Waggling two spoons.

Stupid that this is the thing that makes his heart burst in his chest, but maybe it’s just the most recent. They arrange themselves, giddy, on a dry spot on the bed. Darren digs in, lifts his spoon up to Taron’s mouth, lifts his eyebrows.

“Fuck no,” he states, stabs his own spoon into the carton.

“I get it.” Darren fakes offense. “Some things are a bridge too far. Can only do so much.”

Taron slurps gelato off his spoon, considering. “We ate, we drank, we fucked,” he lists dryly. “Not sure what else there is to do at this juncture.”

Darren hums, amused. “Well, let’s see.”

**Author's Note:**

> forgot their names rhymed until the end of this whole thing, whoops
> 
> WHO IS THIS FOR. if this if for you please let me know <3


End file.
